


A  War, Revisited

by LunaRS



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Blood, Character Death, F/M, Heavy Angst, I Tried, Redemption, Sad, War, tragic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaRS/pseuds/LunaRS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master chose to save the Doctor and send Lord Rassilon to Gallifrey once again. But when he makes it back to Gallifrey, it's near the end of the war. Now faced by familiar faces, what will the Master choose, redemption or death?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prison

White light became yellow, yellow light faded to a pale and then burnt orange; and the drumming raged, always the drumming, always the call to war; the beating of a Timelord’s hearts in his ears, forever in his mind. He was hungry, so hungry! He wanted sweet, juicy, salty, meat, and grease; pork, ham, beef, flesh, water, wine; food.  
Then everything stopped. The light the hunger; everything but the drums.

A man cried out angrily.  
He felt the man push him to the ground and begin to shout, “how dare you?! How dare you, Master, defy me!?”  
The Master laid on the ground passively, smiling up at Lord President Rassilon of the Gallifreyan Council.  
Ta, ta, ta, tap; the drums slowly began to get louder.  
“Lord President, calm yourself,” a woman spoke. The Master recognized her and his smile vanished. An ashamed flush, for the first time in hundreds of years, crossed his face when he glanced at him; though it was only for a moment, such sad disappointment stung him with its ice.

The President left in a huff with the rest of the accompanying Council, limping in pain from their failed conquest.  
“Until your mood and health improve, I shall take on your duties,” the woman said. Two Gallifreyan soldiers stood the Master up before the woman reproached them in her knowing tone.  
“Don’t touch him. Leave him to me and I will escort him.”  
The soldiers looked skeptical.

“Don’t worry. He wouldn’t run now,” she assured them, and they left.  
The Master could only hold her gaze for a moment before he had to look away, such guilt and shame burning his cheeks and upsetting his stomach as the drums beat harder, thudding in his head; tum, tum, tum, tum.

“Master,” the woman started. The Master didn’t move, waiting for her to speak.  
“...walk with me a while,” she said, startling him.  
He did as he was told and walked with the Councilwoman like a child who was expecting to be reprimanded for his actions; in other words, he respected her opinion of him.  
They walked a distance without a word and at every chance he got, the Master looked out of the windows, through the glass dome of the citadel, to see fields of blood red grass, the panopticon, the academy with its many rooms and teachings, and differently shaped TARDIS’ flying boundlessly under the burnt orange sky.  
‘The council will probably exile me to Mount Perdition...’ he thought absently to himself.

The woman stopped walking and looked at the Master, making him fidget a bit in his hoodie. To his surprise she embraced him, petting his whitened hair in a motherly way.  
The Master was overwhelmed and sank his weight against her, hiding his face on her shoulder as tears welled up in his eyes.  
“You found your way home,” she whispered.  
“...Mum,” was all he could choke out; she was the closest thing he’d had to a Mother in all his life.  
Her title was the Ethos and she was the Doctor’s mother; the Ethics of the Gallifreyan Council.  
The Master’s parents had gone exploring, researching as professors of Time in the academy, and had never returned, leaving the Master, their only and five-year-old son, alone in Gallifrey until the Ethos and the Doctor found him. From then on he regarded Ethos and the Doctor as his own blood and they thought the same of him.  
“I am proud of you for saving my boy,” the Ethos said.  
“I’m s-sorry, Mum,” The Master stammered, trying his best not to cry.  
Tum, tum, tum, tum. Tum, tum tum, tum. The drums wouldn’t stop.  
“Why?” the Ethos asked.  
“For forgetting you,” he said. She looked at him and shook her head.  
“You’re still one of my boys, and I still love you,” she said.  
They walked a while longer, quietly, nearing his prison with every step; but he didn’t mind. If his prison was to be in Gallifrey, he welcomed it.  
Ba, ba, ba, bum. Ba, ba, ba, bum. The drums got louder and louder and it made the Master angry. Why wouldn’t they stop?  
Finally they arrived at the prisons and the Gallifreyan soldiers grabbed hold of the Master’s arms.

“Now we part, ‘til your trial in eight days time; when the Council will surely have gathered its wits about it. The Logos will arrive to question you tomorrow,” The Ethos said, professional once again.  
“Wait, what day is it?” The Master asked hurriedly.  
“The first day of the week of Saro, of the seventh constant millennia,” The Ethos replied. She left, and the Master was thrown into a glass jail, impossible to escape as he well knew; as if he wanted to escape. 

“The first of the eight days of silence,” the Master muttered under his breath in a hopeless tone. There were only ten more days until Gallifrey was destroyed by the Doctor, but the Council was bound to know that; he wasn’t quite sure they did.  
So the Master sat and listened to the drums drone on and on and on.  
Ba, ba, ba, bum. Ba, ba, ba, bum.  
They were infuriating and had only gotten louder, impossible to ignore since he’d arrived home.

\--------  
His eyes hurt, stinging with every slow blink, and his body ached, for it was the fifth day of his captivity, and he had not yet slept. He muttered incomprehensible words to himself, staring out of his glass jail and out the nearest window at the burnt orange skies that turned a blackened green in the night. The Logos had already been in to question him three days ago, and he, seeing no point in hiding anything, told him every detail of his return; his past, and their future, he thought better told at the trial.

“The drums need to stop,” The Master mumbled, quietly crazed over the days. He could see his home, but he couldn’t touch it.  
“Drums...stop…”  
He could see it but he couldn’t touch it; 958 years wanting to be home and he couldn’t touch it.  
“Drums--”

“Master,” the Ethos’ voice startled him. He turned his head slowly from the window and only after blinking a few times was he able to focus on the Councilwoman.  
A very weary and bitter smile crept across his face.  
“Ethos,” he started, pushing his hood off his head.  
“Have come to take the drums away?” he asked, the drums almost too loud for him to hear her reply.

“You have visitors,” she said, ignoring his question.  
Visitors? Who would see him now? He hadn’t had many friends in Gallifrey, at least none like the Doctor; none of them had ever tried to understand him and the drums that plagued him even then.  
“I don’t want see them,” the Master said dismissively.  
“You will see them, Master. It would be beneficial to you,” the Ethos said in a stern, motherly tone.  
“Who, then?” he asked. She didn’t answer, and instead bowed in respectful farewell before two figures walked up to the glass of his prison.

For a moment he did not recognize the figure, for his eyesight was still blurred, but when his vision cleared, his hearts seemed to stop and the drums no longer remained prominent in his mind.

He almost drowned in her bright and piercing lavender eyes, her dark hair, and that lithe figure; a flicker of confusion and also hope danced in her eyes, reflecting off the lessening apathy in the Master’s eyes.  
He knew the woman, but he did not know the little gray-eyed boy that clung to her hand with his own grubby one.  
“Master,” the woman began, her voice pure and rich; he couldn’t handle her sight and her voice.

The Master looked down, trembling, and set his hand on the glass in Gallifreyan apology, and he was overcome with shame and grief.  
Uncharacteristically, he looked away, tears falling from his eyes and sorrow wrenching at his hearts.  
“Calm,” he choked on title. His love for this woman and his longing for his home had pushed him over the edge of mental and emotional agony.

He could see his home and now the woman who stood before him, his wife, but he could not touch them. The human wife, Lucy Saxon, was nothing, never had been, and could never compare with the Calm’s beauty and intelligence and altogether loveliness.  
“Look at me, Master,” the Calm said.  
“I...can’t,” he said. “I am too ashamed...in your future...I-I couldn’t…” he couldn’t bring himself to say what he was imagining and remembering: the bloodiest day of the Great Time War when his wife was killed before he could get to her.

“Look at your son, then,” she pleaded.  
‘Your son.’ Those two words echoed in his nearly silent mind.  
Quickly he turned his head and looked at the boy.  
“Mum? Is that my Papa?” the little boy’s voice chimed in curiosity. His son. He never knew he’d had a son. He’d been away so much in his past.

“Yes, Prince,” the Calm said, looking down at the child with a loving smile.  
“Is my Papa a bad man?” the Prince asked. The Master was overwhelmed and the tears would not stop falling from his eyes.  
‘Yes,’ The Master thought, but a resounding, yet quiet “no” left the Calm’s lips.  
“He is a good man,” she continued.  
“Then why is he in prison?” the Prince questioned.  
“I will tell you when you’re older,” the Calm said. “Now, the Ethos will take you to the Academy,” she said, nudging the child gently and watching fondly as he left with the Councilwoman. Before the Prince left, he turned and shouted “goodbye, Papa! Get out of prison soon!” over his shoulder, grinning heartily. The Master forced himself to smile back and watched his son leave.

He still couldn’t look at his wife.  
The cold space of glass where his trembling hand was placed suddenly grew warm and he looked to see that he Calm had accepted his apology by resting her delicate hand directly over the space his was.  
“I forgive you, love, for anything you might have done in the future.” She smiled. The Master wept bitterly, trying to compose himself in front of his wife, but failing. He set his forehead on the glass as well as his other hand, looking down.  
“Calm...I-”  
“I love you, Master, and that’s that,” she said decisively.  
“I love you too,” he breathed, looking up, her gaze calming him; the drums were almost silent within him.

“You’re off travelling, at present,” she started with a little giggle. “I’d imagine you’d be very shocked to see yourself in prison now.”  
“Yeah,” he answered, at a loss for any other words. He was smiling now, a genuine smile; grinning through his heated tears.  
“If you have the chance, my love,” suddenly began to whisper. The guards began to move towards her. “Come and visit me and your boy,” she finished with a playful smile. The Master nodded, glaring at the guards who now stood directly behind his wife. 

“Today is Prince’s first day at the Academy,” she added before the guards said “time to leave.”  
“If I am allowed, I shall come to see you again,” she said as she was escorted towards the door. The Master wished for all the worlds that he could step through that bloody glass and go home with the Calm, to take her away and hide her and the boy from the battle that was fast approaching.

‘First day at the Academy...’ he repeated, watching his wife leave sorrowfully.  
Then panic rose within him.  
“On the ninth day, the Academy fell and all those within it,” he recited Gallifreyan history to himself.  
“Calm, take Prince out of the Academy!” The Master shouted in warning.  
“Why?” the Calm called, turning to look at him before she was pushed out through the doors.

Those of Gallifrey would not let him warn her, the bastards. The Master was furious.  
Then the drums returned, blasting, jumping in volume, for he had quite forgotten them when in conversation with his love.  
Da, da, da, dum! Da, da, da, dum!  
The Master clutched his head and fell to his knees.  
“Make them stop!” he shouted.  
“Shut up!” he screamed. 

They didn’t stop.


	2. Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Master's trial arrives, but he forgets what day it is...

When he slept, there were no dreams. Only the drums droning on and on and on…and there was no sanity in him when he was alone. He had lost track of what day it was.  
The Master was in such a daze that he, for a moment, did not realize that he was sitting, chained to the Criminal’s Podium in the Hall of the Council. When they had moved him, he did not know. He was sitting on the cold ground, his limbs aching.

He looked around, the dark of exhaustion under his eyes, and beheld Gallifreyan elders glowering in disdain, people spitting at him, demeaning him; he saw women screaming and pointing, and young men jeering--the newly graduated Timelords, no doubt. His face was pale and he could only muster a monotonous stare.  
Yet though he saw all this, for a moment, he could not hear anything but the drums in his ears, his hearts thumping slowly.

Then every sound hit him at once, startling him, but all he did was stare. Soon the crowd began to calm and diminish its deafening roar as the Master looked up and saw a Councilman raising his arms for silence.  
‘Where is Lord Rassilon?’ he wondered, a bitter smile twisting onto his face. ‘I thought he’d be here to ridicule me...’ 

“The Lord Councilman Rassilon has been found to be emotionally compromised at this time, too much so to put this man on trial with perfect justice,” the Councilman bellowed so that all the people could hear him. The Councilman looked haggard and weary, near his next regeneration. Sad blue eyes under combed ginger hair looked out on the people; by the ginger hair, every Gallifreyan knew that he was at one time a hero.  
‘Why not let him try me...he might end my misery...’ the Master thought, but he had no wish to die after just having discovered his son.

“So I, Sorrig Martax,” (for a hero no longer goes by a title, ) “will put the Master on trial before you, the people, and we, the Council of elders, shall grant him justice, with the Ethos, the Logos, and the Pathos on my right hand, as is law.”  
Ba, ba, ba, bum. Ba, ba, ta, tum.

The people began to murmur in confusion and bitterness.  
“The Ethos? The Mother of the monster?” a woman shouted. Others muttered their agreement. The Master felt rage flare in his chest. How dare they ridicule his mother?

Councilman Sorrig raised his arms again for silence and the people obliged, awaiting his reply.  
“The Pathos and the Logos have found her not to be emotionally compromised. She has also been made to understand that if she hesitates in her duties as the judge of ethics, she shall be held in contempt by the Council and dismissed,” he explained.

“And I must remind you that the Ethos has raised two children of Gallifrey. Though she chose to take the Master under her wing, she had brought her biological son, the Doctor, into our society and taught him honor and respect. Please diminish your outbursts, my fellow Timelords.”

The Master smiled quietly at the Councilman’s defense; this man, at least, was civil, if not an honorable hero as well.  
“Be seated, and may Justice prevail,” Councilman Sorrig said and waited until everyone else was seated before he sat down himself.  
Ba, ta, ta, tum! Ta, ta, ta, tum! Anxiety bubbled in the Master’s stomach.

“Stand before…Master…” the drumming drowned out the attending Plaintiff’s voice.  
He stared at him for a moment before saying “What?”  
The plaintiff, looking rather annoyed, repeated himself.  
“Stand before your fellow men, Master, and swear that you shall remain honest in their presence today.”

“I swear to be honest,” the Master stood, speaking out. “Before the people of Gallifrey...today.” He put emphasis on the last word, changing the meaning of the statement. The plaintiff opened his mouth to urge the Master to speak correctly, but Councilman Sorrig rose a hand to quiet him.

“Sit down, plaintiff. We shall hold this man according to our meaning, not his.”  
The plaintiff sat down and the Master smiled, receiving glares and sneers from the people he looked out on.

The Hall of the Council was less of a great hall than it was a huge pit, shelf upon shelf of people standing or sitting on the edges of it. In the center of this half-dome stood the great pillar on which the Council of elders sat and the Master stood, chained to a portion of it jutting up that they called the Criminal’s Pillar; a marble-like but nearly indestructible stone.

The ceiling, which was a half-domed glass case, usually allowed the natural light-orange light to bathe the people in its warmth; but on this day, the glass had been covered as if for some reason, this trial, which under normal conditions would be held in the most public manner possible, was being conducted in such a way that it seemed as if they were trying to hide the Master from someone.

‘The Calm?’ the Master thought. Then he concluded that if they had been wanting to hide him from his wife, she couldn’t have been allowed to visit him in prison.

“The first case to be made for and against the Master will be of the Master’s past on Gallifrey,” Councilman Sorrig announced. “Councilman, the Record, will address the prisoner at the stand and entail his history to the people.”  
The elder who was named the Record stood and walked over to the stand where a chair was waiting for him. He, an old raggedy man with white hair and golden eyes, sat down and faced the Master who was to remain standing.

“Your given name from your mother and father was Koschei, correct?” the Record began, raising his white wispy eyebrows.  
The Master winced at his real name and nodded. The Record smiled, looking delighted that he’d gotten that bit of information correct.

“Ah, you lived with the Ethos and her son the Doctor in the House of Oakdown, true?” he continued. The Master nodded again.  
“And you are a Newblood*?”  
“I am,” the Master answered with a bitter grin.  
“Now, Koschei--”  
“Call me Master,” the Master said coldly. “Only one may call me Koschei and you are not that person.”  
“My dear boy,” the Record looked slightly amused, if a little befuddled. “You do not have the leisure to correct me upon facts that are true. Calm yourself.”  
“I can’t calm myself! The drums of war keep drumming, and drumming, in my head! And you’ve done this to me!” he bellowed in his anger, his face reddening. “And you rose Lord Rassilon from his sleep in your desperation! He’s to blame…” his voice quieted near the end and he staggered back, feeling weak.

“Master,” Councilman Sorrig started coolly, causing the confused people to hush themselves. “I do not doubt that you are suffering the choices of Lord Councilman Rassilon, but I urge you to remain silent until told to speak. We will address this matter on this day.”  
The Master, huffing, nodded curtly and turned to stare at the Record.

“Um, indeed. Now, Master, at the age of eight, as is custom, you were forced to behold the vortex of time and space and that was when the drums began?”  
“Yes.”  
“And as far as we can tell, these ‘drums of war’, as you call them, have not wavered or stopped at any time since. In your later years while you attended the academy, you joined a group called…” he waited for an answer.  
Ta, ta, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum...  
“The Deca,” The Master said, remembering the young Doctor and the others in the group: Ushas, Vansell, and Rallon.  
“There were ten of us then, before Rallon was taken over by the celestial toymaker. Magnus and the Rani and the Doctor and I finished our classes without him…” his voice lagged in thought.

“The Deca was a group of rebellious Time Lords, I seem to recall.”  
“Yes...we were.”  
“And even later still you were responsible for the death of Torvic?” the Record prodded on, an entertained glow in his gold eyes.  
“...He was a bastard and a prat. And no, I was not the one who killed him.”  
“A-Ah...then, uh, who?” the Record faltered.  
The Master spread a twisted smile across his face. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know?” he said in a knowing tone.

“It matters not. Move on, Record,” Councilman Sorrig directed, seeing how obsessed with the question the old Councilman was about to get.  
“Ah, yes...of course, Sorrig. The goddess Death attempted to make you her champion, did she not?”  
“She...did…” the Master answered, his smile vanishing.  
Da, da, da, dum. Da, da, da, dum...  
“And it was at this time that you discovered your fascination for the power which the Old One, Vlademar, had acquired in his lifetime, thus you gave yourself the title of ‘Master’, though you never graduated from the Academy, in your lust for domination of all the worlds.” The Record let out a long breath. “This is all I have to discuss of his life on Gallifrey, Councilman Sorrig.” And thus he stood and took his seat amongst the other elders.

“Thank you for your facts, Record,” Councilman Sorrig said with a nod.  
“We will now go further into the Master’s personal life by asking the Calm to step to the stand and address the people on the subject of her husband.” After just having said this, a platform began to move from one of the shelves on the edge of the pit towards the pedestal. The people gasped and mumbled to each other.  
“Taking into view that the Master’s crimes are unconventional, the Council must take equally unconventional steps in finding the truth,” Councilman Sorrig explained, waiting calmly for them to quiet themselves.

Once the platform had floated its way to the pedestal, the Calm stepped off, giving the Master a sultry glance and a half-wink for reassurance, and she made her way to the plaintiff who had stood again to greet her.  
“Stand before your fellow people, Calm, and swear that you shall remain honest in their presence today.”

“I swear to remain honest in the presence of my people on this day,” she said; her voice made the Master’s hearts thump harder in his chest; and the sight of her drowned the sound of the drums almost completely.

“From her chair in the Council, Councilwoman, the Equal, shall address the wife of the Master with questions of their personal life,” Councilman Sorrig declared and nodded for everything to take place.  
“Calm,” the Equal began in a contemplative voice, one that held a lust for knowledge and new things, “was your husband kind to you?”  
“Yes, very kind,” she answered, purposefully vague.  
“For how long did this kindness last in your relationship?”  
“Twenty years.”  
“And why is this so?”  
“He became the champion of Death. He has long since left, off travelling and fighting, I imagine.” She smiled and turned to wink at her husband, who hesitantly winked back. “His intentions were never less than simply doing what he thought to be right.”  
“Has your husband ever struck you? Or made any threats?”  
“Only once. The day before he left. He hit my hand when I tried to comfort him--I saw that he looked disconcerted about something--and he threatened to strike me on the cheek. But he never did.”  
The Master’s hearts sank and he looked down; he remembered that day clearly and also the guilt that had tried in vain to push through his stubborn pride. The people were growing restless and began to form their opinions aloud.

“And what of your marriage? Of your child with him?”  
“He only now knows of his son, the Prince,” the Calm replied with a slow blink. “If I, Councilman Sorrig, may be allowed to address the people with my own plea in my husband’s defense…”  
“Go on,” the Councilman nodded.

The Calm stood and took a deep breath.  
“People of Gallifrey, men and women, my fellow Timelords: my husband, as you know, is a lunatic,” she began, startling the Master.  
The Master was startled at this, and he did not know whether he wanted to laugh at her or to growl at her for her statement. The people murmured their agreement.

“But not of his own accord. We have all been forced to behold the vortex and my husband is not the first to have gone mad in the process. But certainly he is the first to go mad by the means of the Council itself.” The people grew completely still and silent.  
“I ask only that you remain unbiased against him in your judgement of his actions, for most of the events in his life he did not choose himself. He was kind, and can be again. If any of you think back on him, if you can remember for the years he has lived here, I have no doubt that you will remember how generous he was to all. That is all I have to say,” she concluded, following the plaintiff who guided her to another seat, seeing as someone else would be taking the stand.

“Thank you for your plea, Calm. The Logos has collected the information on the Master’s more recent past, and our future. Please step forward,” Councilman Sorrig said. The Logos, a very stern-looking man, stepped up to the stand and, with a certain undeniable sense of self importance, addressed the people thusly:

“People of Gallifrey, here are the facts: in the midst of the great Time War, which is now, the Master deserted the war and his people, took a TARDIS, and fled to the end of Time itself.” The people became motionless in shock.  
“After changing his biology into that of a human’s, hiding his essence in a pocket watch.”  
The people began to whisper amongst themselves before they were silenced again. The Master slumped to the floor, exhausted from lack of sound sleep; Councilman Sorrig graciously allowed him the comfort of the hard floor.

“The Doctor’s companions, a human woman named Martha, inadvertently made the Master aware and regain his original essence. He then stole the Doctor’s TARDIS and after mutilating the peoples of the end of time, who were awaiting a promised Utopia, he travelled back in time and turned the TARDIS into a paradox machine to allow the mutilated ‘Toclafane’ to destroy their ancestors without consequence.”

People gasped and looked appalled; the Master rolled his eyes, though guilt burned his stomach. He had personally carved each person up, manually merged their fleshy heads with machines.  
“On Earth, with a plan for world domination, the Master took on a new name, Harry Saxon and a new wife, Lucy Saxon.” The Master snuck a glance at his wife, who returned his look and smiled, shrugging slightly. ‘I bet she wasn’t as pretty as me,’ the Calm mouthed stealthily. The Master smiled. “He ran for Prime Minister of England, sending a signal around the world to manipulate the humans to his favor. Once he dominated the world, the Doctor went after him with his companions before the Master pulled out a modified sonic device and forwarded the Doctor’s years until he was frail and weak, at the brink of regeneration, as he too is a Newblood.”  
“The Doctor?” the people whispered to each other, some shrugging and some smiling. The Logos cleared his throat and the people directed their attentions to him again. 

“The Doctor's companion, Martha, freed the world from the Master's rule by telling all the people of the Earth to call on the Doctor in one voice, thereby reverting his age to what it had originally been. Lucy Saxon shot the Master in a crazed state of mind and the Master died in the Doctor's arms, refusing to regenerate. Have I omitted anything thus far, Master?”  
The Master shook his head. The Logos continued.  
“After a year of death, the Master was resurrected with his DNA that his most ardent human followers, who believed him to be a god, retrieved from Lucy Saxon before she attempted to destroy the Master with chemical to contradict the formula made to resurrect him. The Master, however, survived, but not without substantial energy deficiency, making him so hungry that he began to even devour the humans.” People were alarmed at this development in the story and started crying out. Logos waited until they were silent to speak again.

“And after he became such a creature, he was captured by some of the humans and told to create a device that would grant a certain man’s daughter eternal life. But the Master did not do as he was told and he made a machine that turned every human into him.” The Councilmen and women began to discuss things amongst themselves. “I would thank you, Council, to first listen to the facts before you make your assertions,” the Logos said in a note of annoyance.

“Now, after all this had occurred, Lord Councilman Rassilon deemed it necessary to break the Time Lock of our world and engulf the Earth with Gallifrey to be rid of the war. And so he and the Council sent the signal, which is to the Master 'the drums of war', and a white point star so that the Master would fall prey to the plans of the Council. But the Doctor and the Master worked together to thwart him, landing the Master here in his past, his beastliness cured, and only the drums to torment him. These are the facts, and I have found them to be true,” The Logos finished, bowing respectfully towards the people.

“Thank you, Logos,” Councilman Sorrig said as the Logos left to take his seat. “And now we shall have the Pathos determine the Master's psychology, and the Ethos shall stand with him.”  
The Ethos and the Pathos made their way to the stand.

“Having heard of the Master’s past and future,” the Pathos began, “I have sufficient information to ask the Master of his emotional state in different times of his life thus far, and to make my assertion known by the end.”  
He turned his green-eyed gaze to the Master and smiled politely. The Pathos was a younger man, a Timelord having only just received this title after the previous Pathos had died; his green eyes shone under his black hair and his face was nobly angled. The Master guessed him to be a Newblood as well, yet a considerably younger one than he. He was beginning to feel quite old...

“When I ask you a question, I would like you to answer with the first word that enters your mind,” he said, as informally as a newly graduated Timelord would. The Master smiled and nodded.  
“What was your childhood like?”  
“Different,” The Master answered without missing a beat. The Pathos scribbled down the answer.  
“How was your life in the House of Oakdown with the Ethos and the Doctor?”  
“Comfortable.”  
“What was your reason for taking a wife at the early age of seventy-six?”  
“Wish.”  
“And what did you feel around her?”  
“Rapture…” this answer was made quicker than the others and he lingered on the word for a moment.

“How do you feel about the Ethos?”  
“Mother.”  
“How did you feel about her?”  
“Mine.”  
“And how did you feel about the Doctor?”  
“Brother.”  
“And now?”  
“Foolish.”  
“How do you feel about your biological parents?”  
“Loathing.”

“What of the things you have done on Gallifrey?”  
“Mediocre.”  
“Interesting…” the Pathos muttered to himself, scribbling away. The people were doing well to remain silent.

“And what of the things you have done on Earth?”  
“Insignificant.”  
“...I have one last question: what is your view of yourself?”  
This was the only question that the Master could not answer straight away. He thought long and hard before saying quietly, “empty.”

The Pathos finished writing the answers down and looked them over briefly.  
“Based on the facts from Logos and Record, and the answers you have given me, I diagnose the Master with severe depression, which is due to his apparent lack of significance both to himself and to some others. This is the most severe case I have seen. The Master also has mental instability, caused by the ‘drums of war’ that Lord Rassilon forced upon him,” he said.  
“Pertaining to the Master’s ethics, I will now speak before the people,” the Ethos said calmly.  
“As a boy, the Master was kind and generous, as the Calm has reminded us,” she began in a regal voice. “But as he grew older, and without the guidance of his own parents, he was considered odd by the children. Because of this, the Master developed a hatred for things that he could not control. This is why he attacked the Earth and gave himself the title of ‘Master’, as in the Master of all things.”  
The people murmured their agreement.  
“I thus make my assertions known: although there is hope for redemption in the Master if he so chooses, his actions speak much louder than any of his future words ever could. He has committed treasons and broken Time Laws, mass genocide, and used his brilliancy for his own exploits; he has even deserted the war. This is my diagnosis of the situation at hand.” the Ethos and the Pathos then bowed to the people and took their seats.  
“My fellow Timelords,” Councilman Sorrig stood. “Allow the Council a few minutes to determine the fate of the Master.” With that, he sat again and the Council began to whisper.  
The Calm watched her husband quietly, wanting so badly to sit beside him and feel him next to her. He was a much more handsome regeneration at the moment, she thought, and a small grin prevailed in breaking through her worry.  
After a few minutes of discussion, and the people’s incessant buzz of too many conversations to count, everyone was quieted. Councilman Sorrig stood and addressed the Master.

“Koschei, most infamous child of Gallifrey, in normal circumstances you would have been sentenced to life of Mount Perdition, but these are desperate times. We, the Council, have deemed it necessary to make a deal with you: if you are willing, we shall free you to help us win this war and in exchange, if all is won in the end, we shall take the ‘drums of war’ from your ears and allow you your nobility as a Gallifreyan citizen and Newblood.”  
The people were surprised, but not as much as the Master. He had no want to go on living, or to fight in the Time War again--actually, life on Mount Perdition sounded appealing to him--but when he looked at his wife, he knew what his answer was; he had no intention of leaving her again, or the son he’d just met.  
“I accept,” he announced, and Councilman Sorrig smiled.  
“And so on this ninth day of silence thus far, I release you to do as you have just accepted.” The plaintiff undid the Master’s chains and the Master began to panic.  
“The ninth day?!” he bellowed.  
“Yes, what is wrong?” Councilman Sorrig asked with an inquisitive look. “The--”

Suddenly, everything shook and an earsplitting crash entered the Hall of the Council. The Master lunged for the Calm and shielded her from debris that was being flung this way and that as the building shook and trembled, threatening to collapse. The smell of things burning, and the sound of a million screams in one voice there and then silence at once, instilled horror in the people and as soon as everything seemed to calm down, a TARDIS crashed through the glass and landed on one of the shelves on the sides. A Timelord limped out and shouted:

“The Daleks made an attack! The Academy has fallen!”

A/N: Sorry about this chapter being so long...but I had fun writing this! Thanks for reading and just a warning, there are only two more chapters to this story (it’s just a mini-fic). *A Newblood is a Timelord of a newer house (nobility). For these Timelords, a change of body is no more than a change of fashion, it’s so easy for them.


End file.
